


all the short things i don't want to invest the effort to title

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Potoos, Bondage, Collars, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Handcuffed Together, M/M, Reluctant Sadist, Telepathy, Three sentence fics, and some stuff that I have no idea how to tag, who the heck knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My tumblr kinsfolk prompted me some things and here they are</p>
<p>(previously "fun times with three sentence fic prompts" but as this now contains fics that are not three sentences a more accurate title was necessary)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. weird magical au i don't know

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by voksen: "javert/valjean au where sometimes things enjolras says become literally, magically true and when he told valjean that javert belong to him, welp"

“The man belongs to you,” the leader of the revolutionaries says, and from the corner of his eye Valjean can see Javert’s gaze, steady on him, impassive – not a flicker of distress, only resignation – no, satisfaction – and it would make his heart churn if it were not for the sudden inexplicable shock of pain that flashes bright across Javert’s face in the next instant.

Valjean accepts the weapons given without much thought and advances towards Javert, paying attention now to the man’s slightly panicky expression, the way he twitches suddenly against his bonds instead of hanging slack in them as he had before – but his attention does not seem directed outwards towards Valjean, only, strangely, to where the ropes bind around his neck and wrists – Valjean does not have time for this, nor for whatever misguided assumption Javert is about to start growling and muttering at him, and instead saws away at the bonds without much care; when Javert flinches he assumes he has hit skin and hisses an apology.

But Javert says, in a strange voice, “No, look,” and stares at his wrists – the glowing marks are fading, but welted upon Javert’s skin like a brand are the words, _Property of Jean Valjean_ , and as he raises his hands to his neck Valjean gets there first and twitches aside his collar – and printed across Javert’s neck, in curling script, is the phrase, _Return to owner if found._


	2. conflicted sadist javert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by a very anonymous anon: "Conflicted sadist Javert."
> 
> This can probably be read as Valjean/Javert (who am I kidding that's all I write) but eh if it tingles your dingle you can imagine anyone else, I'm not your boss

It is a strange interplay between what he wants and what he _wants_ ; it would make more sense, to prefer to hurt one he does not exalt or otherwise dote upon, but the tap of a truncheon on the head of a fleeing miscreant is distasteful – the unfortunate necessity of cracking a rib or gashing a forehead, just that – the cries of pain from the Parisian underworld hold no stirring darkness for him, and his only encounters with lust are in the dealings between public nuisances, or in seedy brothels, or in the investigations of crimes of passion.

He should not love to hurt the one he loves but that is what he wants – wants to bend and press that body until it nears the breaking point, wants to see sweat – tears – wants to hear a voice choked on sobs or on his hand tight on a ragged throat, wants to watch each reaction to every different kind of pain – the building burn of the slap of his palm, the scraping drag of his nails, the searing drip of molten tallow, the cramped ache of joints twisted and bound in odd positions; or needles pricking a delicate line, or the agonizing pressure of a clamp that numbs and bunches skin; or, indeed, the simple stretch of a mouth around the too-large head of a lead cane – no.

He should not want it so, and it is only by some strange mercy – an obscene gesture of grace, a gift from where he does not know, Heaven and Hell both seem to conspire to lock him between them – that in the end – praise the Lord and praise the Devil alike – his love, his love, would want this too.


	3. everyone is potoos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Carmarthen: "AU: Everyone is a potoo, go."

No one understands how Javert can even call himself a potoo when his attempts at camouflage fail miserably; he is very obviously a bird perched on a tree stump, not a barely noticeable outcropping of the branch, as most other potoos appear.

Javert spends his days, then, not asleep as any other potoo might, but awake and flying through the forest, searching for the bird that, rumor has it, stole insects straight from Javert’s beak.

The one who could verify these rumors does not sleep, either; he watches the world through the notches in his eyelids, his beak carefully shut, stiller than stone, still and dead as the stump he sits upon, guarding the tiny fluffy white chick that trembles beneath his feathers – someday, she will grow too large to hide beneath him, and for now he hopes she learns by example the ways of silence – and breathing slow – and, motionless, melding her feathers with the bark of the tree, making sure that the yellow glow of her eyes stays hidden until nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please google potoos if you don't know what they are. You will not regret this.
> 
> After you completely lose your shit because these are birds that actually look like glove puppets, NOTE ALSO that potoos are weirdly awesome because their main survival strategy is looking exactly like a tree stump while having little folds in their eyelids so they can close their eyes AND STILL SEE and they basically just sit on their babies until the babies are big enough to go and look like little bits of trees on their own and they make amazing noises and essentially woohoo potoos.


	4. filthy bootlicking potoos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Within approximately an hour of posting the last chapter voksen proceeded to prompt me potoos bootlicking and I am not one to disobey, so
> 
> there isn't bootlicking, but it's more like footkink and just shoot me someone right now

Javert preens briskly, his beak wiping swiftly under his wings, settling dark feathers into place; Valjean watches, enthralled, despite the mingled anticipation and fear in his heart, and waits for Javert’s attention to turn to him.

He is perched on a branch just below Javert’s, just on a level with Javert’s talons, and when Javert is finished preening, he juts out his feathered foot and shoves it beneath Valjean’s beak.

“Clean it,” he squawks viciously, “preen me, you filthy insect-filcher,” but his wide yellow eyes hold nothing but care; their pasts do not trouble them in this love-play, and Valjean clears away the dust from between Javert’s claws with a fierce pride.


	5. leather stocks, montparnasse, and javert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Carmarthen: "Montparnasse/Javert, Javert's totally canonical leather collar?"
> 
> (Which is a neck-stock intended to prevent throatslitting but shhh shhhhhhh it's kinky don't speak)

Montparnasse prefers silk or fine cotton about his neck rather than thick and ugly leather; as such, he has never purchased a neck-stock of his own, and has little motivation to do so; still, from what he has gathered from his colleagues who feel their line of work makes their throats deserve a little more protection – a valid assumption – one certainly needs no more than a single leather neck-stock, to be worn until finally, irreparably, damaged.

But the old policeman has two, from what he can see – one that Javert slips off after they enter his rooms, an unwieldy collar of dark leather, scarred and scored and clearly having seen much use; and another, which Montparnasse only finds after surreptitiously sliding open a drawer while Javert’s back is to him, a slightly thinner and lighter piece, the leather not even very creased.

Javert turns suddenly, before he can slide it back, and his face goes dark with rage – but also, under there, is a horrified shame, a wonderful thing that does Montparnasse’s heart good to see – “The Inspector likes his collars, I see,” he says, “the dog certainly enjoys his leash, he wants a master!” and he means it as a taunt, does not expect anticipation to bloom sudden and hot, low in his gut, does not know what possesses him to pluck the neck-stock from the drawer and cross to where Javert stands, fists balled, his snarl twisted and filled also with a hopeless hunger – it is the briefest, most perfunctory struggle, a pathetic thing, before Montparnasse has the collar locked tight around Javert’s neck, and the man drops to his knees, panting and gagging against the leather cutting into his flesh – Montparnasse pats Javert’s cheek, cheerfully, and tells him, “I have done this before; with silk, perhaps, but the principle is certainly the same; ah, now, old man – heel.”


	6. montparnasse and javert and knives and sadism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> voksen wanted more conflicted sadist Javert, I think I ended up with more ashamed sadist than really conflicted but who knows

The boy slouching at the mouth of the alley is doing some idiot knife-trick; to impress whom, exactly, Javert does not know, nor does he have any interest in the matter; he is far more interested in how the boy fits the description of a murdering thief last reported seen around this area; though baser parts of him, long-ignored, still mark the boy’s red lips and delicate features with a certain vile appreciation, it is easy to bury the stirring in his groin as only a part of the thrill of the chase.

But then long lashes flick up, the boy meets Javert’s gaze, and rosy lips twitch, momentarily – as if he is about to laugh, of all things – and then the boy’s hand fumbles, the knife slips – almost theatrically, Javert will later realize, hot with anger and shame at his failings – and the foremost failing, now, is the horrible arousal that shoots through his body as the boy clutches at his bleeding hand, first opening his mouth in a tight gasp, then biting his lower lip as his fingers press to the cut; Javert sees this all as though the world is underwater, taking in each detail, every motion, every tiny expression of pain that flickers across the boy’s face.

So he is across the street in half a second, clapping a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder – “Are you all right?” he demands, but his voice is shaking imperceptibly – of course the boy hears it, of course the boy looks up and takes hold of his hand and wraps it around his smaller, slender, bleeding one, a knowing and grateful and insinuating smile on his face – “Thank you, Inspector, I have always known you would not be one to refuse a man in pain –” and there is hardly anyone to see as Javert succumbs to the worst parts of himself, pushes the boy into the alley, has him against the wall, mouth brutal on the boy’s full lips and slim smooth neck and then the boy’s hand, his tongue rough on the long, thin cut, kissing the bleeding mouth of it as the boy bucks and cries out with each harsh shove of Javert’s cock inside him.


	7. valjean, javert, bondage, and feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon: "valjean wants javert to tie him up during sex"

“It is only,” Valjean says, his hands rubbing unconsciously across his wrists, “a proclivity – a thought I have had – that you might restrain me, when we are – well,” and after several more fumbling attempts to give voice to his desires, the urges and dreams that had resulted in palms pressed in prayer and fingers wrapped guiltily around swollen flesh – he thinks Javert might at least comprehend, if not understand, and when Javert voices his willingness Valjean is too relieved and afraid to press for further proof of Javert’s comprehension.

Perhaps that had been where it went wrong – for Javert holds the rope uncertainly, with no little degree of nervousness himself; he glances first at it and then at Valjean, then sets his jaw and paces to stand behind Valjean, is rough when he pulls Valjean’s hands behind his back and winds the rope around them; if the rope were a pair of shackles and Javert in his uniform the image could not be more like – like a scene out of Valjean’s nightmares, if he must allow honesty in his own thoughts, and a horror grips him, sinks teeth into his chest, and he wrenches his hands away, blind with fear.

They try again, but only after many days; when Javert moves to stand behind Valjean again it is with exaggerated slowness, hands deliberate and careful as they bind Valjean’s wrists again; when the last knot is tied, the warmth of Javert’s fingers over the coarse rope banishes thoughts of cold iron and heavy chains, before they lift away, and reach around, and draw Valjean’s growing hardness from his trousers; Valjean relaxes against Javert’s chest, surrenders – not to the law or to force but to Javert, to a tentative kiss on the side of his neck, to the slow and easy strokes of Javert’s hand on his cock; he shudders when he comes, but surrounding arms support him, he is secure, he is safe.


	8. valjean/javert on the kitchen table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: "old guys doin it on the kitchen table"

Javert will always be fondest of Valjean’s face when it is illuminated by the dim candlelight of the bedroom, as expressions of pleasure and abandonment and satisfaction slide across it – still, there is something to be said about the lighting in the kitchen, the sun through the windows, and the oddly satisfying sight of Valjean’s brow furrowed in concentration as he whisks ferociously at the mixture of oil and vinegar in the bowl; the glance he shoots Javert is fierce in a way that warms in Javert’s belly, and his mutter of “Do pour slower, please,” is strangely pleasant to the ear.

He is absurdly content, and it is with this bizarre happiness rising within him that he shifts his grip on the jar of oil, inclines his head in mock submission, and murmurs, “Monsieur le mayonnaise,” he would quail under the look that Valjean gives him next – an mixture of incredulity, horror, and absolute disappointment – but the grin spreading across his face is far too wide; he wonders if somehow he has become drunk without realizing it, drunk on joy and the miracle of the impossible scene they construct.

Still, for a moment he certainly fears that Valjean will never deign to forgive him ever again – that this single, terrible pun will be the straw upon the camel’s back – but then Valjean’s whisking slows and stops, he reaches and plucks the jar of oil from Javert’s hands, then grabs Javert’s collar and shoves him belly-down over the table; the air is driven from Javert’s body in a helpless burst of laughter, and Valjean is laughing too even as he slicks his fingers with the oil and sinks them between Javert’s legs, soon followed by his cock; his teeth are blunt on the back of Javert’s neck, his hands are rough and heated on Javert’s prick, and all cooking is forgotten as Javert scrabbles in ecstatic pleasure at the kitchen table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> old mayonnaise recipe = vinegar whisked into oil, and steady pouring of oil makes for a better mayo
> 
> idk i just wanted to make a really really dreadful pun and have a convenient excuse for a kitchen table to be in there


	9. valjean and javert and telepathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> voksen prompted: "jvj telepathy"

Javert’s hand closes on his collar; in desperation, Valjean thinks, _Three days,_ reaching out frantically to touch Javert’s mind - but in the place where their minds might join and converse, the place where Javert had only days before laid his apology, fervent and unschooled, in the mind-speech of profound respect - instead, there is such a solid wall of fury and refusal, cold and unyielding, that Valjean recoils.

To persist in the face of such a rebuff is contrary to all etiquette of private mind-speech, and Valjean can feel the ache at his temples merely from his first attempt to breach Javert’s mind – yet he fears for Fantine, he fears for her peace of mind, and he flings himself back at Javert’s mind, thinks urgently, _I wish to speak in private, you must be the only one to hear –_

So violent is the mental backlash this time, like a cliff of granite, like a hurricane, that he reels, head pounding, and cannot concentrate as Javert curls his fist tighter in Valjean’s collar and snarls – “Aloud! Speak out loud! People speak up to me.”

“Three days,” Valjean says, in defeat, and the words echo all too loudly in his ears – “three days, for the child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i now want to do a whole exploration of like all the class and authority issues bound up in telepathy in this universe and how it relates to respect and. idk
> 
> also they should have telepathic sex at some point


	10. montparnasse/gavroche, handcuffed together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmarthen prompted: "adult!Gavroche/Montparnasse, handcuffed together :D"
> 
> (I'm thinking Gavroche is now somewhere in his late teens, so ~5 years post canon)

All their plans gone awry, all caution flung to the wind, they had made their escape with very little grace; shackled together, wrists joined by a short length of chain, it is a veritable miracle they had made it this far – holed up in a cellar, listening to the water dripping down the wall and the diminishing sounds of their pursuers outside. A tiny grating high in the wall lets in a scant bit of moonlight. It is just enough to see, but barely, and it is difficult to adjust both their bodies about their shackled wrists as they attempt to pick their respective cuffs. Montparnasse leans in at the same moment Gavroche does, and they knock skulls; amidst their joined grumbling, he pulls back, shifts position, and ends up bashing his elbow against Gavroche’s shoulder, provoking a muffled curse.

“Had you a saw,” Gavroche says, after a good minute of this, “this could have been quite simple, none of this fiddling in the dark and cracking heads. I have heard of how to do it, it is very simple, one only takes a watch-spring –”

“Do be quiet.” Montparnasse concentrates: there, it is done, and he slips his wrist from the cuffs, grimaces at the chafed red marks he sees there. He thinks, suddenly, of what would be the result of a full day of iron there, a year; he shudders at the idea – horrible scars, no doubt, white and shiny, a terrible blight on his looks – and promptly turns his thoughts elsewhere. Gavroche is still working at his end, hunched over and squinting as he fiddles with the lock.

Another minute passes. “Hurry up,” Montparnasse says, wanting to be out of the damp and the mold.

“It has been a long day, and I’m tired,” Gavroche says, pausing briefly to wriggle his fingers. “You may allow me some leisure time, old man. Only a moment more. There!” He shakes his wrist free, and the shackles fall to the floor. 

“We must find you a way to practice,” Montparnasse says, on their way out, “one would think you’d enjoyed that, with how long you wanted to spend still in chains.”

“I enjoy freedom.” Gavroche shoves them into an alley, as men with lanterns run past; their pursuit has picked up again, and they duck down behind a heap of stinking trash. Montparnasse grimaces and wipes off the filth that has splattered on his trousers. “That sounds more like a vice to your liking than mine, Montparnasse.” His hand closes on Montparnasse’s wrist, tightens viselike over the raw skin – Montparnasse gasps – and withdraws.

It is a mingled promise and a challenge; Montparnasse cannot see, but he knows the grin is there on Gavroche’s face. He responds in kind – the flat of his knife lies cold against the pale line of Gavroche’s wrist, and Gavroche goes very still.

“We shall see,” Montparnasse says. Gavroche laughs, and though his pulse is jumping against Montparnasse’s blade, there is no fear in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TRIED
> 
> but the sheer potential of this ship needs to be accurately captured by people that are not me


End file.
